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The Heart of Gaia/In the back of every mind, there’s a spiral of insanity.
by Phil Brucato Like the hidden treasure of some monster temptress, the air itself divides, splitting and folding outward, revealing blackness and faint light within. Like the last breath of a dying wino, hot winds rush from the hole and bathe the basement in twitching filth. Like a landfill of lost souls, the barren fields of Malfeas glow on the other side of the gateway. Lit by green balefires, the landscape twists and writhes. Organic. Alive. It’s too much. Imagine that the biggest, foulest sewer rat in the world had taken a dump in a blender, made a milkshake, and forced you to drink it. That’s how Sean feels when the gateway to Malfeas opens. It’s more than Sean can stand. As the candles flicker from yellow to green, as the basement air turns to churning, cancerous smoke, Sean falls to his knees and pukes up everything he’s even thought of eating. Stomach cramping, eyes squeezed shut, he heaves up booze, bile and scraps of food. Sean gets off lucky. Ryan has nothing to vomit, no reason to turn away and no power to do so. He sees everything beyond the gate. And the images etch themselves into his mind. Slowly, the locks that shield him from insanity turn and close, one by one. And inside him, something surges. A primal birthright. A gift, hidden now but there just the same. But for now, he simply sits and stares into Malfeas while his father crouches and pukes. Finally, Sean runs out of bile, falls in the puddle, and begins to cry. Then to shiver. Then to shudder uncontrollably. He rolls himself in a fetal ball and sobs. The dreams were nothing compared to this. And still Ryan watches the show — the vista beyond the gate, and the spectacle presented by his own father. Sean feels his child watching him. Embarrassment sets in. Deep loathing, bitter shame. No father should break down this way in front of his boy, and no boy should watch his father grovel like some wino in an alley. With a surge of self-disgust and a flare of anger at his son, Sean pulls out of his fit and shoves himself up from the cold basement floor. "What the hell are you looking at, you little freak?" The words come out soft, almost lost in the roaring wind of Malfeas. I sound weak, Sean thinks. Not like a father. Like a baby. He looks like a baby too, when you think about it. What grown man would roll around in puke, crying like a girl? Sean’s own father would never have tolerated this. Sean’s hand whips out, cracks the child across the face backhanded and sends The Brat sprawling on his ass. The explosion of pain across his knuckles feels good, like a baptism. An affirmation. A man doesn’t roll on the floor like a cripple. A man acts! Invisible to mortal eyes, something slithers through the gateway and spins in lazy circles around Ryan and his father, feeding the rage in their hearts. Sean stands, shakily, then shrugs his shoulders and wipes his drooling mouth. A momentary lapse, that’s all. We all have bad moments, but a man can handle them. Beside his feet, the candles blaze with cold green light, illuminating the fog like neon torches. He bends to pick up The Red Book, happy that his "momentary lapse" hasn’t ruined the pages. In spite of everything, Sean smiles. If he could see himself, he might recall Eater-of-Children. His ancestor. His kin. Somehow, this all seems very familiar…. The thought brushes through Sean’s mind, then settles in a corner and waits. It seems right. Sean turns to The Brat huddled on the floor. Towers over him like a mountain. Throws his shadow across The Brat’s squalid little form. It’d be so easy to throw him in, he thinks, to toss the little bastard through the gate and watch him fall into Hell. Hey, it’d be fun! Suddenly giggling, Sean reaches down to grab his son. More time to sleep. More time for sex. More money to spend on better things than broken toys and clothes The Brat will outgrow in a week…. He should recognize the voice in his mind. The unseen spirit begins to dance in the air. In the smoke, images form. Swirl into focus. Come to life. Vivid forms, like ghosts or hallucinations. Behind The Brat, the ghosts twist and shimmer. Monstrous spirits, Sean thinks. Dreams come to life. What the fuck…? First comes the woman from Sean’s dream, the tattooed bitch from Kil Na Korr. Then there’s a warrior, some Scottish chieftain with severed heads on his belt. Then a muscular girl with blood on her hands, and a howling wolf with blood on its jaws. One by one, they swirl in the air, then collapse on themselves and change into another, stranger ghost. I’m going insane…. Some are warriors, some are monsters, some seem to heal, and others wade through ashes. As he stands, hypnotized by the procession, Sean feels a blood-tie calling to him. Nothing speaks, but Sean can see an odd resemblance between the floating spectres and his son. And that resemblance scares him. Badly. My ancestors? Our ancestors? What are we? Behind him, Malfeas starts calling. A chorus of ragged screams carries through the gateway. The Brat tries to move away, but the shock has been too great. Trapped between the ghosts, his mad father, and Malfeas, Ryan simply cowers. It’s too much. Far too much. The dancing spirit, once a Kin-Fetch, now a Bane, breathes hate into Sean’s heart. The green light brightens. The wind picks up and its stench intensifies. Sean’s hands itch to hit The Brat again. To beat his little brains in and throw his corpse through the gateway. There’s a presence behind him, suddenly. Something that’s come through the door. Something with a wolf’s soft snarl and throaty, gasping breath. One last ghost swirls into focus: a gigantic, snarling wolf-man. A white-furred monstrosity with bloody claws and surprisingly familiar eyes. Ryan? Never!!! Sean reaches out to take his son. And behind him, something stirs…. 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